Alone Together
by PixieDust291
Summary: [Superwhoavengerlock fanfic] John has no idea how in such a short time his entire world has been turned upside down, and all because he met this man named Sherlock Holmes. A man that is both brilliant and terrifying, but strangely John is not afraid and finds himself diving head first into Sherlock's mysterious world.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N**: This fanfic was initially inspired by the song 'Alone Together' by Fall Out Boy.  
This fic will be... insane, for lack of a better word. I plan to combine Sherlock, Supernatural, Dr. Who, and some aspects of The Avengers/Thor, as well as additional real life people/actors, with a twist toward the fantasy/Sci-Fi direction and into a story that I hope will be an enjoyable squeefest for all those who read it. Please take note that this story is also on AO3, where any and all fanart has been posted.

**Alone Together**

Chapter One

By Pixiedust291

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John looked down at the slip of paper in his hands before looking back up at the door to the flat once more. Yes, this was definitely the address, 221B Baker Street. He stuffed the paper back into his pocket. This was his last delivery of the day. It was nearly dusk and he was practically starving. He reached up and banged the doorknocker loudly. He then stepped back and waited several moments. The box in his hands grew heavier and heavier as his arms strained to keep holding it. Whatever was in this package weighed a ton. When no one came he impatiently knocked once again. Still nothing. He rolled his eyes in annoyance and was just about to leave when he noticed the doorbell. Attempting once again he pushed the bell. Almost immediately after he pulled his hands away a group of kids road past on their bikes and nearly knocked John over. The teenagers offered no apology. Now even more annoyed, John pushed the bell again; but three times. His rather long and stressful day was quickly turning into a bloody awful night.

"When all of this is done you'll go out, get a pint, and then go to sleep." He told himself, though he tried to not think about his dusty, shabby, little flat. The place was hardly worth coming home to. He supposed it didn't matter. Another month or so and he wouldn't be able to live in London anyway. He sighed. He needed to find another job, one that paid better then a book store employee and delivery man.

He turned back to the door when he heard a yell, though he couldn't make out what it said. Another yell came a moment later. A short time after that there was the sound of pounding footsteps and then the door was roughly yanked open, revealing a tall and very pale-skinned man, wearing nothing but a white sheet. He stayed within the door-frame, keeping to the shadows, as he eyed John with a rather annoyed expression. It was not the man's near nakedness that had John practically gaping at him, it was his sheer beauty. If there was ever a living definition of gorgeous then by god this man was it.

His short, tussled, curly hair was as black as night or raven's wings. His face was like a chiseled masterpiece. His body was tall and well toned, from what John could see. But those eyes, they looked hazel-blue in the low light but when the stranger tilted his head John clearly saw the flecks of what looked to be silver. The man's eyes looked him over from head to toe with undisguised scrutiny.

"I suppose you have a reason for being here, so make it quick."

Realizing that he was staring, John gulped and smiled "Yes, right, um I have a package here for a..." he looked down at the box but couldn't find the name.

"You are from Hiddleston's Bookstore." The stranger said with an impossibly neutral voice. "And you are here to drop off the books I ordered." He stepped back and then began walking up the staircase to another door. "Come on, you can put them on the chair."

John paused for but a moment before following the man inside. Normally he was not allowed to enter the homes of the customers, but neither was he about to hand a man in a sheet the box either. As far as John was concerned this stranger needed both hands to keep that sheet firmly in place. He followed the man into a rather spacious, but messy flat. He was about to place the box on the couch when the man made a noise of discontent. "I believe I said the chair, not the couch."

John stopped and turned, finding the man was standing right next to an old and worn chair. "Right, sorry." John apologized even though he was mentally rolling his eyes. He walked the few steps to where the chair was and then put the box down. With a sigh he turned to bid the gorgeous stranger a good day, but found the man staring at him intently and just a little more then a few inches from his face. John blinked before his dark blue gray eyes locked with the strikingly colored pupils of the dark haired man. The stranger said nothing for several seconds, but moved his closer, and sniffed. The action alone had John a little weirded out.

"I hate the smell of humans." The man spoke randomly.

"Do you?" John said, taking a step back.

"Yes, but your smell is not nearly as odorous or disgustingly pungent as the others." A dark and very calculative expression came to his face.

John decided that now was as good a time as any to leave. "Well you have your books, so I'll be one my way." He nodded. "Have a nice night." He then ducked out of the apartment, down the stairs, and was out the door. As he held up his hand for a taxi a shiver ran down his spine.

Several weeks past and eventually John forgot all about the strange incident at 221 B Baker Street. He resumed his work at the shop, helping customers and putting away books. Every day blurred into the next. It was the same thing over and over again. Wake up, go to work, put books on shelves, leave work, get a beer, then go home and rest. On the days he didn't work, he usually stayed inside his room and never even left the bed. At least his job forced him to go out into the world.

Then one day, on John's walk home, he noticed that a part of the street further up was blocked off with tape and the flashing lights of cop cars. He pursed his lips and tried to draw nearer but he still really couldn't see anything. The stench of decay and blood was thick in the air, though. John could smell and place it clearly. It reminded him of his time in the army. The colder and clearer London air drastically improved the horrible stench of the dead then the hot, dessert, climate of the Middle East. John closed his eyes for a moment and reminded himself that he was happy to be home and away from all that violence. At least that was what he kept telling himself.

As he turned to walk away he noticed a dark cloaked figure approach and then duck under the police tape. He was followed by the clanking heels of a dark skinned women who practically sneered at him. "If Lestrade sent for you so urgently, then why are you so late showing up?" She practically yelled. The response from the man was quiet and not as volatilized, so John couldn't hear it. The woman's face looked even less pleased as she huffed and the man turned to walk away.

It was in that turn, that John finally saw the man's face. It was the same odd man from the Baker Street flat. The man was walking toward one of the side streets away from the crime scene when he suddenly stopped. A gust of wind blew past John, causing him to grab his jacket tighter. The man turned and his gaze focused on John immediately. In the darkness of the night it was rather hard to see anything clearly, but John was sure that the man's eyes were a luminous bright sliver, like the moon. He pursed his lips and turned to walk away. It was probably just an effect from the light of the street laps. He sighed and after a moment risked a glance over his shoulder. The stranger was gone. He sighed to himself and turned back, but immediately bumped into something hard.

He cursed as he took several steps back "Bloody hell, sorry about that." He looked up into the amused face of the stranger. John blinked, looked over his shoulder again, and then back at the man. "Weren't you...just-"

"The books you gave me were dull and lacked any pertinent substance." The man's tone was dripping with boredom and accusation.

John frowned. It was not really his nature to start fights, but he was not about to take the blame for something he didn't have anything to do with. He was also not on the clock so he need not been overly polite or helpful. "Well I'm sorry to hear that, but I'm not the one that ordered them." The man's expression turned curious, dare John say a little shocked. His dark eyebrows lowered and he slowly circled John, like some kind of predator. "Would you please stop that?" The man stopped and in the depths of his eyes it seems a spark of interest formed.

"Interesting."

"What is?"

"Tell me, are you afraid?"

John pursed his lips "Not particularly."

"Why?"

John eyed him up and down once more. This time the man was wearing a long black coat and around his neck there was an indigo scarf. The outfit complimented his beauty in every way as well as made him look intimidating. Though still, John was not afraid. "No offense, but you don't exactly look like the kind of bloke that would instill fear."

The man tilted his head to one side as if in thought "That has not always been my experience." He straightened and stood before John with an almost friendly composure. "Tell me, would you be able to assist me in finding the books I need?"

John blinked "Why, are you planning on coming by the shop tomorrow?"

"Obviously."

John shrugged "Then I guess it would depend what sort of books you are looking for."

"I did not ask if you could find them, I asked if you would assist me."

John eyed the man. The shiver from before ran down his spine again "I...suppose." The man smiled at that and then started walking away. John watched him for several second before calling "Is that it?"

The man stopped "Is _what_ it?"

"You say you wish to come by the store to have me help you and yet you have not said when you will stop by or even why it has to be me who helps you."

There was a moment of silence before a smirk came to the man's face as he spoke "I will stop by tomorrow just before closing. And it has to be you because you are the only thing left that is interesting in this world." He winked and walked away. John was left staring into the darkness. The shiver crawling down his spine had suddenly turned into an all over heat that left John trembling.

The next day, John spent every hour he worked filled with a sense of dread and anticipation. He watched the clock tick by agonizingly slow. Tick-tock, tick-tock. As it got closer and closer to the time when the man would arrive John began to watch as every patron slowly left the store. As he sat behind the desk and looked out the window at the setting sun a hand was placed on his shoulder. He turned and smiled at his manager. "Tom."

"You look as if you are waiting for someone, John." Tom said.

John stretched his arms and leaned forwards "I am. A man was supposed to come in today, but it looks like he isn't going to show."

Tom nodded "Why don't you go on home? I'll close up tonight."

The thought of returning to his empty flat was not in the least bit appealing. "No," he replied "You go home. I'll close up. Besides, I'm sure Chris is waiting for you."

How nice it must be, John thought, to have someone who would wait up until you got home. God knows he had tried and failed at several relationships since coming back from Afghanistan. Women were not exactly interested in a man who was distant and melancholy.

Tom smiled "If you're sure."

"I am." John got up from his seat. "I'll start putting away the books people got out." Tom nodded and gathering up his coat, left the shop.

Sometimes, it was in moments like this that John felt most at peace. There were no people in the shop, just blessed silence. And yet it was not infuriating silence. There seemed to be a hint of whispering in the air. John liked to imaging it was the books talking to one another. Regardless, it was in these moments that John allowed himself to fully relax and feel the most comfortable. He looked at the books in his hand and then wheeled the ladder over, stepping up to the top shelf. He began to slid the books into the bookcase in alphabetical order when the door bell jingled.

"I'm sorry but we're closed!" John called out, He placed the books down and was about to slide down the ladder when he looked and saw the strange man staring up at him from the ground. John froze, wide eyed. "Did you just come in?" he frowned "You're late, I hope you know."

The man looked at the watch on his wrist "By my clock the store was still open for two more minutes." He looked back at John. "Did I not say I would be here before closing?"

John sighed "Yes, but you're cutting it a bit short." He turned back to the books and began putting them away again. "Just let me finish this and I'll help you find whatever it is you are looking for."

"Oh I have already found what I am looking for. Now I just need to find some research."

John stopped in mid action "If you have already found the books then why did you need me?"

"Did I say what I was searching for was books?"

John's annoyance level was quickly rising. "Do you delight in speaking in riddles?"

The man frowned "I have not said anything that would imply a riddle."

John mentally growled "What kind of books do you want?"

"I am in need of books of the ancient cult of werewolves or witchcraft, either will do for now. But, I am also in need of some reading material."

"I do not understand."

"The nights without distraction are long and boring, though I estimate they will be increasingly less boring now that you are alive again. Regardless, I can not expect you to be with me every second of the night when there is not a case and thus why I will need something that is not boring to read while I am waiting."

John didn't know if he understood one word of that sentence "So you're looking for some light reading then. Well, what genre do you prefer?"

The man gave a dismissive hand motion "It does not matter, as long as it isn't contrived or melodramatic." He sighed and started walking up and down the isle, running his fingers along the spines.

"What books have you read so far that you did enjoy?"

The man seemed to think for a second "Harry Potter was predictable and drawn out, but not worthless. There were many parts I enjoyed."

John brightened. "I see. Then maybe you like fantasy." He put the last book away and then descended the ladder . He walked over to a shelf and after locating the book, pulled it out. "Here. This is one of my favorites."

The man accepted the book and then looked at the cover with a raised eyebrow "The Hobbit?"

"Yes, have you already read it?" John asked, still smiling.

"No." the man answered, turning the book over in his hands. He didn't look convinced, but he didn't look like he was against reading the book either.

"Will you need more than one book?"

"Yes, multiple."

"I could give to the rest of the Lord of the Rings series."

The man did not accept the offer "What is another personal favorite of yours?"

John frowned in thought "Another favorite of mine? Well... that would be," he turned around, looking. He then walked down another isle and found it on the highest shelf. He pressed up against the bookshelf and tried to reach it with his hands, but couldn't. He mentally cursed his height as he tried again. From behind him the stranger crowded in close, almost pressing against John's back. John froze as the scent of autumn leaves and cool crisp air nearly enveloped him. His body immediately reacted and felt hot all over. John had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from moaning. When the man moved away he held the book John had been trying to reach in his hand.

"Sherlock Holmes."

John tried to regain his composure "Yes, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle is one of my favorite authors. And that series is by far his best work." John smiled "I suppose I'm overly partial to them because they were the only books I had as a child, that, and my mother named me after one of the characters."

The man raised his head to look at John curiously "Did she now. What is your name?"

John shrugged "John. My full name is John Watson, just like that character in the book." He chuckled, a bit embarrassed. "I'm sorry, I don't think I ever got your name."

"Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes."

John was silent and then started laughed "No, really." When he saw that the name was not joining in his laughter he coughed, abruptly stopping his chuckles. "You're serious?"

"Yes."

"I suppose my mother wasn't the only one that loved these books then."

"A great many people do love these novels, but I am the one and only Sherlock Holmes." Sherlock turned the book over in his hands. "I remember Mr. Doyle. He was always very fond of stories and adventure."

Once again, the man was not making any sense. "I believe you were looking for some other books?"

"Yes, the ancient cult of werewolves or witchcraft. It's not that big of a rush though, considering I doubt this shop will have what I need."

John frowned again "Well, I could give it a try but I suppose you're probably right." He looked down at the books in Sherlock's hands. "Do you want me to put those back or-"

"I'll get them." When he turned to look at John his gaze was both alluring and disconcerting. His eyes had taken on that silver gleam again. "After all, I have it on your good authority that they are worth reading."

"Yes." John answered, though he didn't know why. He just kept staring straight back at the other man. He was even vaguely aware that Sherlock was getting closer.

"You should know that I do not waste my time on things that are not interesting." Sherlock spoke in an almost inaudible whisper. His eyes remained on John's as he continued to move toward him. John tried to move back, but found his back against the bookcase. When he was nearly a breath away, John's eyes couldn't help flicking toward the man's lips and then back up. "John." A tremor of energy practically sizzled through John's spine as he heard Sherlock say his name. The way he said it sounded so desperate and longing, like a lover whispering sweet nothings in his ear in the dead of night. "Every time you are born, you are even more adorable."

John opened his mouth to say something, he couldn't remember what as Sherlock's mouth closed over his own. John's mind screamed even as his body practically melted into the other man. He had never in his life kissed another man and yet here he was. Why did it feel so natural, and why was he enjoying it?! All these little things sent up several red flags in John's mind, but he ignored them completely in favor of the feel of Sherlock's mouth. The man's mouth was not at all like a women's, soft and yielding. Sherlock's was firm, supple, and talented. He kissed and nipped at John's lips before cupping the back of his neck and angling John's head upwards before gently pushing his tongue past John's lips. The frightening thing for John was that he allowed it, wanted it, hell he even moaned! What the bloody hell had gotten into him?

He returned Sherlock's enthusiasm and pressed back with his own tongue. He was definitely glad that no one was in the shop, otherwise their shameless rutting against one another would have been beyond embarrassing. John felt one hand with long, nimble fingers, caress down his back to then grab at his ass. He gasped, giving Sherlock the initiative to practically suck on his tongue. And god did that feel wonderful!

Not wanting to be outdone John's thrust his tongue inside Sherlock's mouth and came in contact with something, two things rather, that were long and very sharp. One of them pierced his tongue and he pulled back harshly, covering his mouth. Embarrassment and shame filled him, as well as a twinge of pain. He tasted blood on his tongue. He didn't look up but rather at the ground. "I..." he didn't know what to say. What did one say after a heated kiss that neither was expecting? Well, he supposed he might as well stop any future incidence, if there would be any. "I'm sorry, but I'm not actually gay."

Sherlock looked at him, John could feel it. "Obviously." His voice was full of sarcasm.

John looked at him then, face stern "I mean it. I've never done anything like," he gestured between them "what we just did. And I'm sorry but it was a fluke and it will not happen again." He took a steadying breath.

Sherlock only smiled at him "I enjoy tea, but that does not mean I do not occasionally prefer coffee." John chuckled nervously, against his better judgment. He stopped when Sherlock placed a brief momentary kiss on his forehead before turning away. "I'll see you later Dr. Watson. Tomorrow, same time. Don't eat dinner because we'll be going out."

John opened his mouth to protest when something occurred to him "Wait! How did you know I was a doctor?!"

Sherlock smiled at the door "You're always a doctor. Time goes on, but some things never change." Then he left with a swirl of that long black coat.


	2. Chapter 2

**Alone Together**

Chapter Two

By Pixiedust291

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_He was running alongside the rest of his squad as they made their way down the deserted, dirt street. His military uniform was suffocating in the hot, humid heat, but he persevered. Their superior officer gave a wave of his hand and with a nod they infiltrated the building. But, the moment John went through the door, gun held high, the scenery around him changed in a flash. The house walls crumbled away to reveal a darkly lit forest. His squad vanished like ghosts in the night. John stopped in his tracks, frozen. What the hell was going on?_

_ "Do you mean to stop us?!" came an enraged shout. John was __startled __ and then turned around. A mob of medieval looking villagers, holding flaming torches and a large cross, stood before him with vengeful eyes. John took a step back, lowering his gun. A man stepped forward._

_ "You are in league with the monster! Can you not see, John, that he has made you his slave?" John shook his head._

_ "I don't know what you're taking about!" Fear, pure and boiling, was now rushing through his veins. Though it was not fear for himself, but for someone else._

_ The man's face was grim as he shook his head and then came to stand in front of John. "John, if you will not join us... then we have no choice."_

_ John gave no cry as the blade sliced through his clothing, his skin, and sank deep within his abdomen. When the man twisted the hilt and then sliced upward only a started gasp and animal-like whimper of agony left his lips. He lost his footing, stumbled backward and then fell to the grassy ground. He coughed and tried to calm his sheer panic. This wasn't real. It couldn't be real._

_ The mob walked over him, not even giving him a second glance. He watched them leave, tears coming to his eyes. He felt pain, sadness, and an unspeakable sense of terror and guilt. "Sherlock." The name left his lips as he tried to get to his feet but slipped on the growing pool of his own blood. His hands and clothes strained crimson as he closed his eyes, his vision growing dark. Through the ringing in his ears, he was sure he had heard Sherlock's voice yelling his name._

John awoke with a vicious gasp that caused him to start coughing. He rolled to his side and nearly fell out of his bed. He tried to take several deep breaths and managed to calm down. The coughing fit passed and he quickly got to his feet, stumbling to his bathroom. He leaned over the sink as a wave of nausea overtook him. He took slow, deliberate breaths as he tried to settle himself. When he was sure he had regained some control, he turned on the faucet and allowed the cold water to run over his hands. He then ran his hands over his face before looking at himself in the mirror. Bloody hell, he looked like death warmed over. To add insult to injury, his alarm went off at exactly that moment.

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The day went by at an almost miserable crawl. John found himself glancing at the clock every few minutes. He was filled with an odd energy and eagerness, the likes of which he had not experienced in a long time. Though he told himself the only reason he kept his eye on the time was that he wanted to know when Sherlock was to arrive, so that he could give the man a piece of his mind. He had, after all, basically walked out of the store without paying for those books. The fact of it was still insulting to John, because he had not realized it until he was already at his flat and tossing in his bed, since he couldn't sleep.

Tom also seemed to notice his peculiar fascination with the clock in the front of the store, but being the polite man that he was, he did not ask John about it. At lunch, John practically felt as if he was crawling out of his skin. Whenever he closed his eyes, all he could see were flashes of what seemed like memories, or a vignette from some dark fantasy movie. He didn't know what to make of them and yet they felt so intimately familiar. He didn't know what was going on and for his own sanity, he pushed the thoughts away, preferring to contemplate his strange attraction to Sherlock Holmes. John had, until very recently, very much preferred women. Sure he admired a good looking bloke now and again, just like women may look at one another in envy, but he had never admired a man so much that it had caused him to think 'I want to shag that.'. And yet here he was fantasizing and flustered over Sherlock, a man.

Of course being a doctor, John had known that human sexuality was not so cut and paste as society lead people to believe, but he had always reflected on himself as being strictly straight. Then, in walked Sherlock Holmes, with his cool up-turned coat collar and high cheek bones and suddenly John's neglected libido was raging through his blood stream. He wondered if there was a term for his current sexual dilemma. He casually eyed some of the young women that walked by the register. Yup, still found girls attractive. He then looked to the men. Attractive, but not in a stimulating way. So was it only Sherlock that was the absolute exception? John wouldn't be surprised. He had the feeling that Sherlock was the exception to a lot of things in the world.

His internal roller coaster of thoughts kept him occupied well into just before closing time, when Tom came up and brought him out of his reverie. "Are you ready to go home?"

John looked to the books stacked up in the rolling bin. "It's quite alright, you go on home. I'll stay after again."

An almost unearthly glow seemed to enter Tom's eyes "Are you meeting your date again?"

John stuttered "I'm not- It's not a date! And how did you know?"

Tom smiled "When I opened the shop this morning, I could practically feel the power radiating off the furniture." John blinked in response and said nothing as Tom gathered up his coat. Had it become the fanciful pass-time of everyone around him to speak in vague and strangely cryptic terms? "Have fun with your date and see you on Monday." Tom waved a hand.

"I'm not his date!" John yelled after him and rose from the desk. He rolled the bin down the isles and started putting away the books. With every hard bound cover he touched, he read the title and reflected on the sheer number of books there were in the world. He was about to place a children's book on the lower shelf, when a flickering of black, in the back corner, caught his eye. He paused, removed the book, and then stared at the corner, but saw nothing. Curious, he reached his hand in and groped at the darkness, surprised when his fingers closed around something tangible. He slowly pulled his hand out and turned his palm upward, unclenching his fist. At first, all he saw was a small, palm sized, glob of what looked to be dust and hair. He smiled "A dust bunny." His expression changed, however, when the blob moved and two little pink crystal-like eyes opened. The ball rose and shifted, taking form with two small front feet and two long back feet. From the top, of what John assumed was the head, two rounded protrusions extended outward. The creature lifted its head and sniffed the air and then proceeded to paw cautiously at John's palm. When the creature noticed his gaping shocked face it tilted its head to one side in puzzlement. It looked very rabbit-like in its appearance, except for the ears, which resembled the shape of leaves more than anything else.

"It's wondering why you took it out of its nest."

John turned, and saw Sherlock walking toward him. He had not heard the bell on the front door chime, signaling an arriving visitor. But then again, hardly anything ever did what it was supposed to do anymore. John looked back at the animal, still not sure if he was in reality or some strange dream. "You... do see this, right?"

Sherlock smiled "Of course I do." He leaned down and plucked the creature from John's palm and then turned to place it on the bookshelf. The creature looked at them in question, before squeezing its way between two books and then disappearing without a trace. John quickly moved the books apart and looked between them but the creature was gone.

"What was that!?"

"A dust bunny." Sherlock said conversationally as he looked around with a semi-bored expression. "They are quite common, especially in places like this where dust is a problem. They eat dust you see. However the more they eat, the more their size increases, which is why they are considered a pest to those who can see them." He fingered the spine of a book "I would assume Mr. Hiddleston allows them to live here because they keep the books clean and he had probably enchanted the building." Then Sherlock turned his full attention to John. "You are confused."

John shook his head, as if he couldn't believe his ears "Brilliant deduction there. You're not honestly-"

"We have been through this many times before, John. I tell you about the world you do not see, you panic a little, then come to grips with it, and then..." He trailed off as his gaze fell to the floor. He sighed "It's tedious and a waste of a great deal of time that we could be spending together, so let us not continue that pattern." He leaned against one of the shelves. "You have not seen the dust bunnies before because you could not see them; magic must be present in the body and awakened for magical beings and those of mystical persuasion to be observed. Without that, everything else just appears as if it is not really there. Like ghosts, if you prefer to think of it as such. You are able to see them now because you have been reunited with me and my kiss has awakened the magic within you." He waved a hand "Do not fret, your magic level is average at best and certainly not enough to be of any real significance. Oh, don't take it wrong, practically everyone has average magical capabilities." John pursed his lips. "In the days to come, you will notice a great many other things that you were otherwise blind to before. I am sure I am correct in my assumption that your memories of our past lives are returning, or rather they were _**your**_ past lives."

John stared at him, but slowly nodded. Sherlock pressed his hands together just under his chin as he began pacing back and forth. "How much do you remember?"

"I..." John shook his head. This was insane. "Past lives? What are you going on about?! Are you on drugs!"

"No, John, I am not. Besides, a good majority of drugs do not affect me anyway. Now what do you **remember**?" His gaze was demanding and almost feral.

A shiver of excitement and pleasure ran down John's spine, regardless of whether he wanted it to or not. Why did that keep happening? "I...remember being with you... intimately being with you. But every time I see myself I'm different."

Sherlock nodded "And." He looked expectant and eager.

"And then..." John started, his throat feeling tight. He remembered the vividness of the stabbing with the blade, the suffocating pain and fear. "And then, I feel myself dying."

Sherlock's expression changed; obviously that was not what he was hoping for. His eyes grew cold, distant, and his entire demeanor changed as he visibly closed himself off. "Yes." He said flatly, as if he were a machine.

John immediately felt sad and sympathetic, as if he had done something wrong. He decided to change the subject. He licked his lips as he tried to think of what he wanted to ask. "So... it was destined that we would meet?" he gestured between them "Like this?"

"Yes." Sherlock answered again in the same dead-pan voice.

John frowned and walked forward, grabbing Sherlock's arm. "Sherlock." Sherlock looked at him, surprised by the contact. They stared at one another, never looking away from the other's eyes. This went on for several moments before a smile returned to Sherlock's face.

"Yes John, it was destined."

"So," John tried to search for the right words "Every time we are born, it does not matter where or how, we will always find each other?"

"Yes John, though it is you who is reborn."

"How?"

"I can not exactly explain the reasons of the universe, however I have it on good authority, from another doctor, that time and space itself is not exactly linear."

"Then what is it?"

"I believe he said something along the lines of 'wibbly wobbly timey wimey', but that phrase is not only unscientific, it is also utterly infantile." Sherlock sighed and then raised a brow "You're taking all this surprisingly well, in contrast to some of your other times."

John tried to see if he could remember those 'other times', but nothing came to mind. He licked his lips again "On the contrary, I'm trying very hard not to loose my mind." Honestly it was only his military training that was keeping him together. That, and this was the only real explanation he had to explain everything people had been saying for the last several days and the strange lint creature he had just seen and touched. Unless, he had somehow consumed a drug without his knowledge. But, due to his nervousness throughout the day, he hadn't had anything to eat and all he had really had to drink was water. It was extremely hard to drug water, because even the most tasteless chemicals often distorted the texture or bland palatability of water, thus making them detectable by taste.

Sherlock studied him and then a look of admiration came to his face "You're an army doctor."

John paused "Uh, yes. You already knew this."

"In all your past lives you were a doctor, yes, but never one that had the combat and training that a soldier would also have." His grin was a little too pleased. "This will prove incredibly useful." He patted John's shoulder "Come along, we are wasting moonlight." John looked at him in confusion. He watched as Sherlock went to the door and then held it open expectantly "Coming?" His tone was commanding and yet also annoyed. John didn't like it, and so he folded his arms.

"Where, exactly, are we going?"

"There has been another murder. I already texted Lestrade saying I will be there." From the glow of the street lights, John was just able to make out a light pink tinge to Sherlock's pale cheeks. "However, I thought this would be as ample time as any to finally bring you up to speed and have you accompany me." Sherlock had stopped by to get him before going to a crime scene? Why did that make John feel so... cherished?

"So, that's it then?"

"Is what it?"

"You just... come into my life, tell me that – what? – magic and such exists and now I'm supposed to blindly follow you to some crime scene?" He took a steadying breath. "Give me one reason why." He wanted to go, and he knew that Sherlock probably already knew that he wanted to go.

Sherlock studied him and then in a few strides, he moved away from the door and came to stand directly in front of John. A hand gripped John's right shoulder and then slid down the length of his arm in an intimate gesture. He brought his face close, mouths almost kissing, but not quite.

"Because you are the Watson to my Holmes." Sherlock whispered as his breath ghosted over John's lips. When he pulled away, they looked into each other's eyes. "Ready to come with me, and see the world for what it really is?"

John gulped "Oh, god yes."


	3. Chapter 3

**Alone Together**

Chapter Three

By Pixiedust291

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They got out of the cab and as they approached the yellow tape, a woman that John recognized as the same he had seen before, walked up. Her heels made an obnoxious clicking sound across the pavement. She moved to stand in front of Sherlock, but he easily ignored her and ducked under the tape before holding it up for John to follow him. The gesture was not lost on the woman, but she did seem to be flabbergasted by it. She looked from John to Sherlock and then back again. When John made a move to duck under she apparently remembered her position of authority and held up a hand to stop him.

"It's bad enough you are here, freak." The women gave Sherlock a disapproving once over, though it looked a little forced. "Who is this?" She smirked "Did a stray puppy follow you home?"

"Sergeant Donovan, I am sure that even you are well aware that werewolves have not been enslaved for at least a century. And as you can clearly see John is as human as you are so if you wouldn't mind I would like to speak to Lestrade. He's the only one of you that is tolerable." Sherlock's tone was both cold and cutting to the bone. Yet his voice and the way he spoke still whispered of sin and feverish midnight couplings. John had never heard him use that tone before. Or at least Sherlock had never used it when talking to John. Did that make him special? John was rather quickly beginning to think it did. Sherlock's gaze never left John's as he continued to hold the tape up. "Come along, John."

That one sentence seemed to resonate in John's mind. He felt like he had heard it before, several times before in fact. It felt as if his soul was being pulled, forever tied to something he could never escape. He ducked under the tape and followed Sherlock down the street before turning into a dark alley that lead down to the next street over.

The smell hit John long before he even saw the body. Several people were around them, all wearing blue containment suits as to not contaminate evidence. Yet surprisingly, to John at least, Sherlock did not put one on. The people they passed seemed to either ignore Sherlock entirely or watch him with barley contained resentment and fear. Did they know something John did not? John glanced at the back of Sherlock's head. He was already relatively sure Sherlock wasn't human, but what was he? He remembered the kiss; the feel of sharp teeth. A vampire? On another note, if Sherlock wasn't human, John could only assume the police around him knew about it. If that was the case, then was the police force aware of supernatural beings and yet not telling the public about it? It seemed wrong, and yet John could kind of understand why. Telling the masses, that creatures that were created to almost exclusively pray on humans existed, was likely to cause mass hysteria.

A man who had been standing and observing the scene turned as they approached. He was middle aged with some partially graying hair. He looked human enough, but unlike the others he approached Sherlock in an almost causal and yet familiar way. He did not look scared or angry, more relieved. "Sherlock." He smiled.

Sherlock gave him a nod in greeting. "Another man, I presume?"

"Yes, just like the others." The man then seemed to notice John. "Oh, hello. Who is this?"

"He's with me." Sherlock answered curtly, as if that was reason enough.

The man frowned slightly, looking at John "You're with him?"

"For the moment, I suppose so." John nodded, not knowing really what else to say. He was a tad skeptical as to what they were doing here at all.

"John this is Detective Inspector Lestrade." Sherlock introduced.

"John?" A revelation seemed to come over Lestrade's face. He nodded and Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Anyway, yes." He turned, allowing John to finally see the body in question, though, there was not much of a body left. It had been mutilated pretty badly and the blood was still a wet, sticky puddle under the corpse. "Young male, probably a university student, judging by the books in his bag." Lestrade offered as Sherlock walked forward. He walked around the body and the blood. He didn't touch, merely just looked at it with calculative eyes and an almost vacant expression.

"No prints or evidence?"

"Yup, just like the others."

"Others?" John asked.

"Yes, there have been two more before this one." Lestrade elaborated. "We think it's a serial killer-"

"Wrong." Sherlock cut in without even looking up. He knelt down "This is a serial killer but it isn't human. So far, all the victims have been young and male, killed in the same way, always at night, but there is no evidence ever left behind." He outstretched a hand and ran it over the boy's coat then brought his fingers to his nose.

"But what makes you believe this is something paranormal and not just a very skilled killer?" Lestrade's immediate acceptance and lack of balking at the word 'paranormal' had John believing in his prior suspicion about the police.

"It is not only important how they die, but why." He stood. "This boy was on his way home from a night of heavy drinking at a local pub. He, or the people around him, must have been severely intoxicated because some beer was spilled on the sleeve of his jacket. Cheep quality. It would take a lot to get him drunk. There is a smearing of lipstick at the corner of his mouth. Obviously he was receiving attention from a woman. However, this woman was not his girlfriend."

Lestrade blinked "What? How do you-"

"The keychain on his backpack." Sherlock went on, undeterred. He pointed to the boy's backpack where a small Hello Kitty keychain hung down. "A straight male of his age is very unlikely to willingly have or even display a token such as that. Therefore it was given to him by a girl, but if the girl held no special interest for him he would have passed it on to someone else. Though this girl, as I said, was not the one with him last night." He pointed to the right pocket of the boy's jeans. "His pocket is filled with condoms, not something one does when they have faithful intentions. Statistically speaking, most young men only carry protection when they know they will become sexual and they are not sure if their partner has protection. If he was having relations with the woman he is dating, that knowledge would have already been known to him." Sherlock sighed "He was on his way home when he was attacked. The way the body was found is too contained, so there was no struggle. Meaning the man either knew his attacker, or was not threatened by them." He took in the startled and fearful expression permanently frozen on the man's face. "At least not at the time."

Sherlock then turned to look at John, expectantly. "What do you think?"

John let out a breath before shaking his head "That...was fantastic." He seemed at an utter loss for words.

A smile came to Sherlock's lips "Yes, but I was more referring to what you could tell me about the body."

A slight blush came to John's cheeks as he stepped forward and kneeled down. "Well... I can definitely smell the alcohol." He checked the boy's throat, turning it slowly. "It looks like he choked on his own blood." He allowed his gaze to take in the rest of the boy. God, he looked so young. Too young to die such a brutal death. His gaze had just passed the man's torso when John noticed the button to his jeans was undone, and the zipper was halfway undone. He glanced to Sherlock, questioning if the observation was relevant. Sherlock looked right back at him, smiling. He had seen it to, and knew something he wasn't telling. Sherlock turned to Lestrade "I've seen enough. Thank you." He waited for John to rise to his feet before he began walking.

"Wait, is that all?" Lestrade called out.

"Despite what you may want to believe, inspector, this is a paranormal case."

"Alright fine, but what is doing this?"

"That is what I intend to find out."

.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.

John looked out the window of the cab and up at the sky. The black blanket of night was slowly giving way to the blue, yellow, and pink rays of the morning sun. He absently clenched and unclenched his hands. This did not, however, go unnoticed by Sherlock. The man was always observant, even when it seemed he wasn't paying attention.

He took a steadying breath "Alright, you have questions."

John pursed his lips "Yes...well," he turned to look at Sherlock "First off, what were we doing at that crime scene? Why did they even let you in?"

Sherlock raised a brow "Come now John I would think that would be obvious."

John considered this for a moment before saying "You're a detective of... the supernatural?"

"Consultant of the supernatural." Sherlock clarified. "Whenever the human police are out of their depth, which is always, regardless if the case is paranormal or not, they consult me."

John gulped silently. Sherlock had distinctly referred to the police as being 'human', thus insinuating that he was different and not like them. John wanted to ask, wanted to confirm, but it didn't seem like the right time. Not to mention the cab driver was already looking up at his mirror to stare at them perplexedly. John noticed then how the morning sun rays danced and illuminated his face. He looked slightly annoyed when the light hit his eyes but nothing out of the ordinary happened. Alright, so maybe Sherlock wasn't a vampire. Regardless John decided to change the subject. "Where are we going?"

"Home."

John just stared at him "Home?"

"Yes, that is what I said."

John shook his head "To which home are you referring to? The bookstore? I don't live there I just work there and I have a flat-"

"Yes, you should get around to packing up your stuff. If you find it difficult to get out of your lease I'll handle it."

"...I'm sorry what?"

"You're moving in with me, John." Sherlock beamed just as the cab pulled over on a side street. Before John could say anything more, Sherlock was up and out of the car. John sputtered as he frantically got out and followed him.

"I'm what? Sherlock we've only just met. I can't- I won't move in with you." Sherlock ignored him as he walked across the sidewalk and up to a door before turning and smiling to John. John looked up, taking note of the address. "221 B." He looked to the street sign "Baker street." A sudden twinge of pain sparked at the back of John neck, right where his skull would attach to his vertebra. The address flashed within his mind, different signs with different fonts. As suddenly as it came the pain was gone. Leaving John moaning in its wake.

"Remember?"

He looked to Sherlock and sighed "Did you always live on a Baker street?"

"In one form or another." He opened the door. "Come, I think you'll find it most agreeable." Against John's better judgment, he followed, it just came so naturally. Despite everything that he had seen and what was happening, John found he was surprisingly calm. He knew he shouldn't be. And yet here he was and he felt...safe. He followed Sherlock up some stairs and then through a doorway into a rather large flat. He had seen the place before but now he was more keenly aware of his surroundings.

The place was definitely better then what he was currently living in. The place had quite a bit of space for furniture and a rather adequate kitchen. Despite the flat's messy state and rather clustered furnishing that was all Sherlock's, John was sure, he felt an immediate attraction. He felt comfortable and content as if this were his home. John paused; he couldn't even remember the last time he had felt that way.

"I know you don't have much in the way of possessions where you live." Sherlock began, gaining John's attention. "You can move in tonight if you wish."

John let out a breath "Are you serious? Did you not hear anything I said outside?"

Sherlock's eyes hardened and he stepped closer "Don't be stupid John. I know exactly how you are feeling and you know, as well as I, that you belong here."

John was not about to be intimidated. He glared at Sherlock "I belong?" John scoffed "And what makes you so sure I **belong** with you?"

"Because you are my mate and I refuse to spend one more night without your company." John stopped, completely taken back by that. Sherlock's face fell, realizing that he had probably said the wrong thing. "John..." He cursed under his breath before looking back into John's eyes, his conviction renewed. "I told you before that you are the only one that was reborn. I don't die, John. At least, not the way human's do." His eyes darkened even as his expression became distant. "I live John, even after you die I continue living. Waiting for you to be reborn into this world." He closed his eyes. "The last time I saw you, Britain was in the middle of World War II." He took a steady breath as he stepped back. "I would like it very much if you moved in immediately."

John stared at him for several moments, his mouth slightly ajar. He didn't know what to say. What did one say in this situation? He tried to grab onto anything he could change the subject with so that he could have more time to think. "Um... mate?" He inwardly slapped himself. Of all the things to ask, oh well. Might as well ask it now "I assume you are not referring to a good friend?"

Sherlock frowned "No, I mean it as a synonym for partner, significant other, or lover."

"I-I'm not actually gay." John said without thinking.

Sherlock smirked and without hesitation replied "The bulge in your pants when I kissed you indicates otherwise."

"Sherlock?" came a slightly withered female voice. Sherlock moved away as a rather old woman came up the stairs. She smiled when she saw Sherlock, but then stopped when she saw John. "Oh, I'm sorry. I hope I'm not interrupting anything?"

"Not at all." Sherlock walked toward her and gestured with his arm. "Ms. Hudson this is Dr. John Watson. He'll be moving in shortly. John, this is Ms. Hudson, the land lady."

John smiled and offered his hand "A pleasure to meet you."

Ms. Hudson seemed to giggle "It's nice to meet you too, dear." She noticed the apartment out of her peripheral vision and sighed. "Oh Sherlock, look at the mess you have made." She turned back to John with an apologetic look. "So what do you think, then, Dr. Watson?" She asked. "There is another bedroom upstairs, if you'll be needing two bedrooms."

John tried to think of an answer. If he said yes then that would mean he was seriously considering moving in with Sherlock. Wasn't he? He looked around the flat. It would defiantly improve his living situation. He wouldn't have to dread coming home to an empty and suffocating silent room. In fact, in the short time that John has known Sherlock Holmes, already his life is infinitely better, albeit more complicated and definitely more dangerous, but still better. More excitement. Less boring. And then there was Sherlock himself. John looked to him and saw that he was watching with a rather curious expression. John considered simply saying he wanted more time to think about it, but he already knew what his inevitable decision would be. God, help him. Still, he was not about to completely accept everything, just because it seemed right.

John cleared his throat "Of course we'll be needing two bedrooms." John looked to Sherlock, his eyes conveying his thought of 'Fine, I'll stay here with you. But, I'm not going to immediately just let you shag me.' Sherlock's responding expression, a little to John's unease, was casual, yet the corner of his mouth turned up as his eyes slowly looked up and down John's body. When his gaze returned to John's, his right eyebrow quirked upward as if to say 'Is that a challenge?'

Ms. Hudson stammered. "Oh, don't worry, there's all sorts around here. Mrs. Turner next door's got married ones." She smiled as she made her way out of the flat and down the stairs, leaving Sherlock and John alone. As she left, John momentarily reflected on how quickly his life had changed. He sighed and turned around, taking a seat in a chair just after fluffing a British flag pillow. "If we are going to live together, you are going to have to be completely honest with me." Sherlock did not blink nor move as he waited for John to continue. "What are you? I know you're not human."

Sherlock stared at him when such an unwrapped expression. "What do you think I am?"

"You said you were long lived. I at first assumed vampire, though my knowledge of the supernatural is limited to what is popular and..." he paused.

"And?"

"And you don't appear to have any problem with sunlight."

Sherlock walked over to lie on the couch. "Very perceptive John." He smiled "You're conclusion was correct. I am a vampire." John's eyebrows furrowed. Before he could ask the next obvious question Sherlock continued. "Most everything about vampire lore is fiction, not fact." His expression soured a bit when he added "Especially the most _recent_ fanciful fictional works."

"So what is true then?"

"It is true that we need blood, however, we do not feed as often as the myths lead people to believe. Blood is like a drug, John. If a vampire indulges too much, he has a high risk of getting caught and therefore killed. Biologically, we only need to consume approximately two to four pints of blood every week."

John frowned "The human body can withstand losing up to two liters of blood without dying. That's approximately four pints so-"

"So why do the people vampires drink from die?" Sherlock finished, giving him an inquisitive look. "Simple John, normal vampires do not kill their prey. Only rogue or exiled vampires do. All vampires are required to be a member of a covenant and each covenant has regulations and rules to keep both vampires and humankind safe. The covenant protects the vampires that belong to it in exchange for absolute loyalty and obedience. They discourage vampires from feeding from the human population and instead offer preserved blood packets as compensation. Of course, these blood packets can only do so much and thus some still go out and feed from humans, but they are forbidden to kill or consume blood from any human in a way that would cause the human uncontrollable pain or death."

John assumed that a vampire's bite was probably very painful. Two long sharp fangs sinking through skin and into artery could only be excessively painful and terrifying. "There is a way to take blood without causeing pain?"

"The key word is **uncontrollable** pain, John. Sharp fangs piercing flesh will always be painful. But yes, there are ways, though most of them are strictly forbidden. Nevertheless, one way is that the prey must be in a state of heightened arousal."

"So... sex." He wasn't phased or embarrassed when he said it. After all, he was a doctor.

"Yes. Sexual intercourse increases blood pressure and changes the body's perceptive response to any stimulus. In a sense, pain becomes pleasure. In addition to intercourse making feeding for the vampire easier, it is far more agreeable for the human as well."

"Still, the covenant discourages drinking from live humans."

"Even in today's world, John, if a vampire were discovered it would have undesirable consequences. There are people out there that would wish to kill us as much as any other manner of less civilized creatures."

John nodded, though he seemed a little confused "So what else is there?"

"We are not affected by sunlight or crosses, though holly water does sting a bit. Some of us have mental abilities. Yes we are immortal, we do have reflections, wooden stakes do not affect us, and the only way to kill us is to decapitate us and then burn our corpses before we can regenerate." He glanced momentarily in John's direction before saying "And we mate for life."

John was silent. He really did not want to address that particular topic now. He licked his lips "What about garlic?"

"Oh please, if that were true then the Italian mafia would have died out long ago. Though garlic, when ingested, does make human blood rather unpalatable."

John was silent a moment longer before he frowned "Why? Why do you need to drink blood?"

Sherlock frowned. In the past, John had never asked that question. A slow smile came to his lips. Oh John, never boring and loyal John. "Hemoglobin. Vertebrate blood is comprised of hemoglobin, which are iron-containing oxygen transport proteins. You can say all vampires suffer from a condition that is like sickle cell anemia, a disease where the blood cell does not form properly and thus cannot transport oxygen."

"Yes, I know what sickle cell anemia is." John said curtly.

"Vampires must drink blood in order to replenish our bodies with active blood cells. When active blood cells are in our bodies we can breath and our heart beats normally. It takes about a week for our bodies to start feeling the effects again and then by two to three weeks most are desperate to feed again. That is why it is important for us to feed regularly. Fresh blood is best, but packaged blood will do."

"I don't understand how the blood helps when it goes to your stomach."

"It doesn't. You know how humans have a valve that separates the air pipe from the esophagus." John nodded "Vampires have an additional channel that leads to a specialized organ that secretes the blood directly into our heart."

John leaned back in his chair, running his hands over his face. This was a lot of information and once and it would take some time to sink in. "Alright, what about the boy we saw earlier today? Was he killed by a vampire?"

Sherlock turned away to look up at the ceiling, pressing his palms together and then placing his hands under his chin. "No." he sighed "If it were a physical being it would leave by a scent or something tractable that I would be able to pick up."

John blinked "Physical? Are you saying the murder is...a ghost?"

"Possibly, or a demon," he shook his head, immediately disregarding what he said. "No. To do something like that would require a powerful demon and that kind of presence in London would not have gone unnoticed. It would have been coupled with previous and obvious signs."

"So a ghost?"

"It is our only remaining solution." Sherlock leaned up, stood up on the couch, and then stepped down to walk across the room and look out the window.

"What about the state of the boy's clothes."

Sherlock smirked "I was pleased that you noticed that too. In fact, all the bodies have shown similar signs like that one. Thus, indicating that they were in a state of sexual arousal before they died." He pursed his lips. "John would you hand me the computer." John looked around him, assuming the computer was near him. When he finally did spot the computer it was on the table right next to where Sherlock was standing. John frowned, looked at Sherlock, and then with a sigh got up and handed it to him. The moment his fingers touched the machine he was frantically typing. The flat went completely quiet, save for Sherlock's incessant typing.

John waited and waited, but when it seemed Sherlock had somehow slipped into an almost catatonic-like state, he got up and headed for the kitchen, deciding to make some tea while he waited. It took him a while to find everything in the kitchen, but about twenty minutes later he emerged and set a cup down in front of Sherlock. The vampire didn't even seem to notice it. He waited around a while longer and actually nodded off for a bit. When he woke, Sherlock was still glaring at his computer screen.

"Any luck?" John asked.

"Yes and no." Sherlock answered distractedly.

John looked out the window and noticed the setting sun. He sighed. If he was going to sleep here tonight then he might as well get a move on. He stood up, noticing the cup he had given Sherlock was still untouched. "I'll... go get my things and..." he shrugged "Be back shortly." He straightened his coat and made his way for the door.

"John." He stopped and turned. Sherlock didn't look up from his computer screen as he said. "Be back before nightfall."

John couldn't stop the chuckle "I'm not a young man Sherlock. I don't think you have to worry about me."

"Whether I do or do not is irrelevant." He finally turned, meeting John's eyes. "I will regardless." He added, more softly.

John's heart practically swelled within his rib cage as a slight blush came to his cheeks. "I...um" he cleared his throat. "Before nightfall, right." Then he turned and left.


	4. Chapter 4

**Alone Together**

Chapter Four

By Pixiedust291

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There wasn't much in his little flat, so it didn't take that long to pack up. Stuffing what he owned into a duffel bag he then informed his landlord that he would not be returning. He made up some excuse about having to ship out again at a moments notice. Being in the army did have its perks. When he made his way to the sidewalk he had every intention of hailing a cab to take him straight to Baker Street. It would only be a few hours before the sun was completely gone and John had the feeling that if he truly wasn't back by then Sherlock would be most unpleasant when he did arrive. He momentarily thought about that, but all thoughts were striped from his mind when a female voice said "Dr. Watson?"

He jumped and turned, seeing a particularly beautiful woman standing directly behind him. Where had she come from? She was busily typing away on her phone and did not even look up at John or acknowledge him. Her long voluptuous brown hair framed her face in an almost heart shape. John stared at her for a moment before looking around them. There was absolutely no one else on the street.

He pursed his lips "Yes, I am Doctor Watson."

Before he could even ask the woman her name, she handed over her phone "It's for you." She said simply as if he needed no other information.

John looked at the offered phone and then back at her before hesitantly taking it. He stared at the screen and then cautiously brought the mobile to his ear. "Hello?"

"Hello, Dr. Watson. It is always a pleasure to see you again."

John frowned "I'm sorry, who is this?" He was startled as a sleek black sports car pulled up on the curve directly next to him. The woman walked over and opened the door before staring at him expectantly. "Get in the car Dr. Watson. I would make some sort of threat but that would be pointless considering I could not follow through with any of them. Besides, I know you're a curious man." There was a soft chuckle on the other end.

John eyed the car "I'm not curious enough to willingly walk into an obviously dangerous situation."

"Oh come now, we both know that's not quite true. You already know about Sherlock and yet you are still moving in with him." John was speechless. "Get in the car, John. We have much to talk about." The line went dead. John lowered the phone from his ear and stared at it for a moment before looking at the woman, who still stared at him with placid eyes.

With a muffled "Bloody hell." He handed the phone back to her and then slid into the car. She got in after him and the moment the door was shut the driver was speeding off down the narrow London streets. John leaned against the plush leather seats and after admiring the gorgeous car interior it occurred to him that his life was now something like a dark fantasy story, crossed with some spy novel. He wondered, jokingly, if it could possibly get any weirder. He glanced at the woman across from him, who was once again texting away.

He licked his lips, wondering if he should at least make an attempt at polite conversation. "Um...Hello."

She looked up, briefly "Hi."

There was a long and awkward pause as he stared at her, waiting for her to perhaps say something else. When it was obvious she wouldn't, he tried again. "So what's your name then?"

She made a sound as if she was thinking before answering "Anthea."

John was not a stupid man "Is that your real name?"

She looked to him again, an amused and yet pitying smile on her face "No."

John sighed as he looked back and over his shoulder out the rear window and then out the front window. By god this was going to be a stressful and seemingly boring car ride. "I'm John." He said absently.

"Yes, I know." There seemed to be a hint of amusement in her voice.

John settled further into his seat "Any point in asking... where I am going?"

Another smile spread across her full lips "None at all... John." The way she said his name had an almost familiar lilt to it. As if she had said the name before, and not because it was a common name. Her expression changed as well and seemed to be saying 'You are too adorable.' John pursed his lips and began to wonder if there were more people in this city that knew him than he knew himself.

"Ok." He answered, effectively ending all conversation.

The drive was not particularly long, though to John it felt like an eternity. When they pulled up and stopped in an abandoned warehouse, John was more then a little suspicious. He licked his lips again and then began ruffling around in his duffel. Anthea watched as he pulled out his gun and tucked it behind him, pulling his coat over to conceal it. He noticed her, and waited for her to attack or sound an alarm. She only smiled. "It won't do you any good." She said simply as she got out of the car. John blinked at her words but followed her.

The moment he stepped out of the car, he looked forward. Illuminated by the car's headlights was a man who looked no older then John himself. He stood straight and proud, wearing a very well tailored business suit. His legs were crossed and he was leaning against a cane. The pose reminded him of something, ah yes. Back in Afghanistan he had seen two American soldiers sharing some peanuts and the mascot on the can had stood in a very similar posture. He believed it was the Planters Peanuts mascot. Regardless, John stepped forward.

A black chair had been set out for him and as John approached the man indicated to it. "Have a seat John." He said pleasantly. Upon closer inspection, John saw that the cane was in fact an umbrella.

John eyed the chair and then ignored it. "If you wished to talk so badly, I do have a phone." John began as he came closer. "I mean, very clever and all that, but...er, you could have just phoned me. On my phone." He stopped as he finally came to stand before the other man. He was nearly a head taller then John. Then again, that wasn't exactly surprising.

"When one is avoiding the attention of Sherlock Holmes, one learns to be discreet, hence this place." The man explained with a wave of his umbrella. "You must be exhausted after such a tiring day, please do take a seat."

"I don't want to sit down." John said flatly.

The man gazed at him, as if trying to discern something. John had seen Sherlock do a very similar gaze, however, his had only lasted a few seconds. A few seconds was probably more then enough time for Sherlock to deduce anything and everything where as this man seemed to be... calculating. John didn't know whether the man's long stare was a reflection of his lesser-then-Sherlock intelligence or if he was merely looking for something in particular. "You don't seem very afraid."

John just continued to stare right back at the man "You don't seem very frightening."

The man blinked and then laughed, showing his long pointed fangs. So he was a vampire. John wasn't exactly surprised. There was an initial spark of fear that perhaps he was about to die, but then his soldier instincts overcame it. His mind instantly remembered what Sherlock had told him not some hours prior. Besides, if this man wished to kill him then he would have done so already. If he only wished John dead then there was no need to meet with him. The man's laugh seemed to echo within John's mind, alluding to a possible memory that remained out of John's reach.

"Yes... your bravery John has never ceased to amuse me." The man smiled. "Bravery is by far the kindest word for stupidity, don't you think?"

John glared at him "Who are you?" the memory flickered, just on the edge of his consciousness.

"Oh come now, John." the man chuckled again "Surely, you remember me?"

John pursed his lips "It would seem I am trying not to."

"Oh, that hurts." And with that one sentence the memory came rushing over him. John cringed and lowered his head. He wanted to press his palm over his forehead to steady himself but his inner soldier refused to show weakness. Almost as quickly as it happened John stood up straight again, undeterred and resolute. "Mycroft."

"Ah yes, see. I knew you would remember me."

John frowned "I see you are still showing a concern in your baby brother's life."

"You know my brother far better then anyone in the universe, John. How many friends do you imagine he has when you're not there? Without you, I am the only closest thing Sherlock has to protection."

"Protection." John repeated absently. The word left an almost sickening feeling in the pit of his stomach. Visions, momentary screen-shots of the past, flashed before his mind. "If... I remember correctly the first time we ever met you tried to have me killed."

Mycroft frowned and sighed "That was a very, very long time ago John and the rules were very different back then. And if you remember we eventually made certain... exceptions, to your and Sherlock's relationship."

Another memory flickered in John's head and he could not help but smiling "I seem to recall that you were forced to."

Mycroft laughed again "Yes, yes I was. Your memory always did return rather quickly whenever he found you." His expression turned concerned for a moment "What do you remember John?"

"I...I" John paused "It's coming back, but not in a chronological order. I'm having a bit of trouble figuring out which came first."

"I suppose that is to be expected." Mycroft articulated with his umbrella, tapping it on the ground absently. "Allow me to give you the basics for this current time. You are John H. Watson, Sherlock Holmes' mate. Though you are his mate you are not a vampire and have never been one because he refuses to turn you. You remain human but are tied eternally to him. Thus, why every time you are reborn you are fated to meet with him and continue on until you inevitably die once more." John's heart pulsated in his chest at the last sentence. "It is a truly tragic and unavoidable cycle. Quite dramatic really. Fits my brother perfectly."

John licked his lips and was about to retort when there came a ping from his phone. Frowning slightly he took his phone out of his pocket and read the new text. It said simply:

_Baker Street. Come at once, if convenient. – SH_

John didn't remember giving Sherlock his number. He rolled his eyes.

"I hope I'm not distracting you?" Mycroft added in an almost teasing manner.

John pocketed the phone and smiled back at Mycroft, though the smile didn't reach his eyes and wasn't genuine. "Not at all. You're not distracting me at all."

"If you continue on this path, Mr. Watson, it will only lead to your death." Mycroft's voice grew softer "It always does. He is the death of you. Knowing this will you continue your association with him?"

"I could be wrong, but I think that's none of your business."

"Oh, but it is."

"It really isn't." John looked at him and didn't even have to think. He already knew his answer. "If I recall, you said I was his mate and that anything I do is irrelevant because it is all leading to him." John tilted his head "Unless you are implying that I do have a choice. That I could walk away."

"You could, but you would feel that for the rest of your life a part of you is missing."

"I don't recon Sherlock would willingly let me just 'walk away'."

Mycroft chuckled "This is probably true, but still it is your life. Do you really want to continue giving it to Sherlock Holmes? Dying for him time after time?"

John smirked "I've done it thus far, so it must be for a reason."

Mycroft watched him and then, surprisingly, a genuine smile came to his face "Remarkable."

John blinked "What is?"

"You're very loyal, very quickly." Mycroft answered "Every time you are reborn I try to intervene and stop you, but it never works."

"Then why do it to begin with?"

"I feel it only fair. Warning you what is to come." He looked down and then back up again, his smile never fading. "Do you think I do this because I hope to change the outcome? To make you walk away?"

"Don't you?"

Mycroft shook his head "Oh no, John." He turned and began walking away. To where, John did not know. "Goodbye John, I look forward to seeing you again." John watched him leave and the turned as Anthea came up beside him.

"I'm to take you home." She instructed politely. Another ping informed John of a second text message. He took out his phone and opened it.

_If inconvenient, come anyway. – SH_

John sighed as he turned to Anthea. "Where would you like to be dropped off?"

John smiled "Baker Street, please. 221B Baker Street." Anthea nodded and then walked back to the car. Once they were settled in the back seat John turned to her "Are you a vampire too?"

Anthea made a sound of amusement "No."

The rest of the car ride was spent in silence until they pulled up in front of 221 B. John opened the door, but before he got out of the car he asked "Have you already told Mycroft that I came here."

"Yes." Anthea answered.

John nodded and then asked "He didn't really expect me to go anywhere else, did he?"

Anthea looked at him "No."

John nodded again and then exited the car. He opened the door and made his way upstairs to the flat. Before he even opened the door he heard that almost mournful and yet beautiful sound of the violin. He paused on the threshold and listened intently. The music brought with it a feeling of calm, comfort, and a rush of memories. He saw himself reclining along a large sofa near the fire as Sherlock played. He looked to Sherlock and saw the vampire was starring at him with a most lustful and yet adoring gaze. John chuckled and then moved the blanket from his lap. Sherlock stopped playing, setting the violin gently on a side table before coming over and sitting next to John, molding against him as John wrapped the blanket around them. They snuggled there, in front of a roaring fire. They were so content and at peace. A feeling of sheer joy and warmth spread through John's blood. He closed his eyes for a moment, relishing in the feeling. Dear god, was that what it had been like? Was that what it would be like? The sheer weight of everything fell heavy on John's shoulders. The past, the present, what Mycroft had said, what Sherlock meant to him. All of it. He listened again to the violin and slowly a smile spread across his face. He grasped the doorknob. If this was to be his fate, then he was not about to change it. He opened the door and walked inside, not surprised when Sherlock did not stop playing. He set down his duffel and then leaned against the wall, just watching the man standing in front of the fireplace.

The violin was tucked under his chin as his long fingers curled and pressed against the strings. He was wearing pajamas and a loose fitting blue robe that was left open. His feet were bare and, John noted, the teacup he had given Sherlock was still untouched. He shook his head and then went into the kitchen, making a fresh cup for the both of them. When he came back Sherlock seemed to finally notice his presence. "Ms. Hudson says your room is ready." He stopped playing and gave John a quick once over. "You've seen my brother."

"Yes." John answered, offering him the cup. Sherlock accepted the mug but then placed it on the mantel. "Did he give you his usual speech?"

"Yes, he did."

"And what did you say."

John let out a laugh "I would think that was obvious." He paused "Sherlock... every time I die. Is it because I'm protecting you?"

Sherlock went so still John wondered if he was still breathing. There was a long pause before he nodded "Yes." He looked at John, his eyes gazing directly into his for several moments. It was as if he was waiting for John to react, say something. John just smiled and took a sip of his tea.

"I'm off to bed." He took a few steps and then paused. Nibbling his lower lip he ultimately rolled his eyes and then turned back around. He walked up to Sherlock and gave him a quick peck on the lips. "Goodnight." He said.

Sherlock looked down at him with a shocked expression, and John felt a surge of gratification at the knowledge that he had surprised Sherlock Holmes. "Yes...goodnight." Sherlock answered. John then turned and walked to his room. There were worse fates then being eternally loved. Was it not Shakespeare himself that said it was 'better to have loved and lost then to have never loved at all?' John laughed at himself. It seemed his life had become somewhat cliché. Something then occurred to him and he stopped right at the beginning of the stairs. "Did you get any leads with the case?"

Sherlock regained his composure in an instant. He smiled "Oh yes, there has been another victim. And this one left a note."


End file.
